


As You Like It

by winterjan



Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams, Fix-It, Incursions (Marvel), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterjan/pseuds/winterjan
Summary: After the Incursions, Steve begins to dream. They're always the same: lucid, crystal-clear, and of Tony Stark.Tony Stark, the traitor, who has been locked in a cell underneath the tower ever since Steve got his memories back.





	As You Like It

Steve’s muscles ached. It had been one thing after another all week: Hydra, then A.I.M., then Modok, then Hydra again, then that thing on the Moon, and then Hydra _again_. This was the first time in a while he’d had the opportunity to just sit down and do nothing.

“There’s nothing on,” Tony said, from the other side of the living room. He was sprawled across one of the soft green armchairs, legs hooked over one side as he channel flipped. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, but it’s either watch another episode of _Storage Wars_ , or _Ghosts In My Home_.”

“ _Storage Wars_ ,” Steve replied. “I think this is the one where Mara gets the five thousand dollar pallet.” He wasn’t really watching. He’d seen the episode before, in the real world. He was willing to just let his tiredness wash over him, just relax for a while before he had to wake up and deal with his actual problems. There should be more days where the height of dilemma was choosing between two bad TV shows.

Rain pattered against the windows, ambient, and the glow from the screen was soft. Steve lay back against the couch cushions. Was it possible to fall asleep if you were already inside a dream?

“You alright?” Tony asked. Steve turned his head to look at him where he sat. His hair was chaotic, sticking out at all angles, still mussed up by the helmet of his suit that he’d taken off hours ago, now. There were dark circles under his eyes, though not as dark as usual. Something inside Steve approved, that Tony was getting enough sleep. At least, this dream version of him was.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “It’s been a long week. It’s just good to finally lie down.” Lie down and sleep, and dream, he meant. Days were hard, but ever since he’d started dreaming of Tony, of their old friendship, of how things used to be before the incursions and the mindwipe and Tony’s betrayal—

Nights were kinder than the days. In these dreams, semi-lucid, he didn’t have to be the paragon of truth and justice everyone expected him to be; he could be himself. The irony that he could only do that in reveries alongside the man he now hated didn’t escape him.

“I wish things could go back to being like this,” he said, laying back, resting his head against the arm of the sofa. “I wish I wasn’t fighting you. I wish I could still trust you.”

Tony stilled, almost imperceptibly though Steve’s half-closed eyes, and he looked away, the smile fading from his face. A rush of shame flooded Steve’s heart; he wished he hadn’t said that, that he’d kept this dream soft and wonderful.

“I’m sorry. I am,” Tony said, like he meant it. And Steve, Steve wanted to believe him, he did but–

“Hearing that doesn’t mean an awful lot in a dream,” Steve replied, and folded his arms over his chest, getting comfortable. “Maybe if you said it in the real world, then I’d believe you. Maybe.” It’s just, it felt like forever since he’d been able to trust Tony, really trust him, with everything, like he used to. He wanted it back desperately, like air when underwater, but at the same time he was aware that things between the two of them would probably never go back to the way they were. Even when they made up after the Civil War things weren’t quite the same. Everything had changed, been utterly altered, forever.

He had a feeling that, now, everything had changed forever, again.

“I know,” Tony said. “I’m still sorry. Here, now, to you. Even in a dream. I don’t want the dream to end without you hearing it.”

Steve smiled, sleepily. “You’re wonderful,” he said, and started to say, “I wish,” but he woke up before he could finish the thought. It slipped away from his sleep-addled mind.

 

—

 

Carol was worrying about him – that, he was well aware of.

“You should take a day off every now and again.” Her shouted voice came over the team radio, raised over the noise of the battle as she blasted a skrull in the face. It was the second alien invasion of the month. As if the Avengers hadn’t had enough end-of-the-world scenarios in the past year to last them the rest of the decade. 

“A day off from what?” Steve shouted back. The crunch of skull ribs against the edge of his shield probably shouldn’t have been as satisfying as it was. “Saving the world doesn’t really came with scheduled weekends.”

Even from across the block, Steve could see Carol roll her eyes at that. “You know what I mean,” she said.

Steve was about to reply, but then the second invasion ship appeared out of hyperspace, and after that there really wasn’t time for talking.

They routed the skrulls at the cost of two broken ribs (Synapse had been hit by a stray skycycle; Clint had apologised) and a torn wing (“I’m _fine_ ,” Jan was insisting on the other side of the avenjet). Thor – the new one, not the Odinson one – was standing beside a bereft Sam with a mournful look on her face, gazing down at Redwing, who had lost a couple of tail feathers to an enemy laser rifle. Spider-man and Ms. Marvel huddled together at the rear end of the ship, comparing take-downs. Carol fixed a look at Steve.

“Good fight,” he said.

“We’ve had worse,” Carol agreed. “My point remains, though.”

Steve, internally, sighed. “Your point.”

“Take a break, Cap. You’re overworking yourself.”

“Anyone else in the world would be handing out congratulations for saving the world every other week. This one calls me a workaholic,” Steve replied, trying to keep his voice mild. It wasn’t that Carol was frustrating him. It was that Steve could count on one hand how many times they’d had this conversation in the past decade or so of knowing each other. Since the incursions, though, they’d had it at least seven.

“Steve,” Carol said. “We both know these past few months haven’t been kind to you. Everyone knows it. Especially with everything that happened between you and Tony–“

“ _Stark_ ,” Steve cut her off, “Has nothing to do with anything.”

“I’ve known you for thirteen years,” Carol shot back. “Don’t patronise me. Tony has everything to do with everything, especially in regards to you.”

Steve looked at the floor. 

Carol sighed, ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. That’s not what I’m doing. I just, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said.

Across the jet, Jan echoed his sentiment, batting Dr. McCoy’s hands away from her torn wing.

 

—

 

“Castle Dracula,” Steve said, “1943.”

“You told me about this one last year,” Tony said, leaning over the railing to gaze over the Transylvanian nobles, all dressed to the nines and spinning through elegant waltzes on the ballroom floor below. “Is Dum-Dum Dugan going to burst in any time soon?”

Steve checked his watch. “Not for another ten minutes,” Steve said. Ten minutes in these dreams could last a lifetime. He wasn’t terribly worried about time slipping away from them.

Tony smiled. He looked good, in his suit. For whatever reason, Steve’s sleeping mind had given him a dress uniform, medals on his breast and all. Even though Steve was wearing almost exactly the same thing, he couldn’t help feeling a little shabby. Tony looked good effortlessly. His expression, the way he held himself, they reminded Steve that Tony had grown up with these kinds of events; it came to him as easily as breathing.

As if reading Steve’s mind, Tony remarked, “This reminds me of the charity galas my mother used to host.”

“They’re all vampires,” Steve said.

“That only proves my point,” Tony replied, with a lazy smile. “You know, I’ve known you for years, but it’s still strange to me that you’re on a first name basis with Dracula.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Steve said, laughing. It wasn’t funny, but it was fun — being on good terms with Tony again, if just for the night.

Tony grinned. “The number of problems that could be solved in an instant if I had nosferatu on speed dial.”

“Suddenly I’m wondering what sort of problems you have that could be fixed by vampirism.” Steve mused, leaning over the balcony to stare over the dancers below. The swirling dresses ebbed and flowed; a sea of silk and velvet.

Laughing beside him, Tony leaned over the balcony as well. “It’s strange,” he said. “You did all this seventy-odd years ago, but here it is. You told me about it once, now it’s here before my eyes. Conjured up, like ghosts.”

Ghosts. “I’m here. Does that make me a ghost too?” Steve asked, without really meaning to. It felt more true that it should. Recently, he’d been going through the motions without feeling them, acting his part without really thinking it, like superheroics were etched onto his soul as instinct instead of intention. Maybe Carol was right. Maybe he did need a break.

Tony gazed at him, the look in his eye something akin to wonder. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never heard a ghost wonder it it was one.” He stilled for a moment, stole one last glance at Steve before his eyes shifted back to the dance floor. “You’re not one to me. I think I need you too much for you to only half exist.”

“Need me,” Steve echoed. Was that the dream version of Tony talking, or what he thought the real Tony would say? They blurred, the same person and yet two people; there was the Tony in here, who was still his friend, and the Tony out there, who had betrayed him. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” Tony said, again. “That seems to happen a lot, when it comes to you.”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but the clock struck twelve, and Dum-Dum Dugan smashed through the enormous window on the other side of the hall. Shards and slivers of glass rained down on the sanguivores, and the dream shattered with them.

 

—

 

“Is it just me, or are you sleeping more than you used to?” Jan commented one morning as she buttered her toast.

Steve steadily drank his coffee. “Am I?”

“You tell me, Cap. I used to come down in the morning to find you freshly showered after your run. Yet here you are today, and for the past few days, still gross and sweaty.” Jan grinned and elbowed him. “Don’t tell me you’ve got someone up there who stops you from getting up at the crack of dawn.”

Steve smiled. “Hardly,” he said, but then, Jan couldn’t know how right she was, in a way. Ever since he’d started regularly having these dreams, he’d lingered in bed longer, wishing they would go on. He had, pathetically, stopped setting his alarm clock, hoping to catch the last dregs of the night before the dreams slipped away with the rising sun.

“Well, whatever it is, I like it,” Jan said, with a glimmer in her eye. “Seeing you all disgusting like this beats back those deadly thoughts I have of going to the gym."

“You don’t go to the gym, Jan? I never would have known,” Steve teased.

Jan laughed. “Now now, handsome. Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek before picking up her plate stacked high with toast. “Ignore my plate full of carbs.”

“That’s a lot of bread, even for you,” Steve said.

“If that’s your way of offering to help me eat it, you’re in for a disappointment. I’m taking it down to Tony.”

Steve– Steve felt all his gears grind to a halt. “To,” he said, “To Tony?” His voice was tight, his muscles had tensed. God, it was embarrassing, his reaction to even Tony’s name, even the thought of him.

Jan fixed him with a look. “Don’t be like that, Steve.”

Steve was, suddenly, irrationally, angry. Viscerally aware of his own heartbeat, the blood in his veins. “He lied to us, Jan. He betrayed us, and you want to bring him toast?”

“Your anger isn’t my anger,” Jan said. “Maybe you haven’t forgiven him yet — maybe you won’t forgive him ever — but I have.”

“How? How can you have forgiven him?”

“It’s been six months, Steve. He’s sitting in a cage in our basement. What do you expect me to do, ignore him? You know me, you know I can’t do that.” Jan… Jan looked at her mountain of toast. Her lips curled up, in the shadow of a ghost of a smile. “In four years, I’ll have known him half my life,” she said. “I was angry at him, but there’s not a lot of people who I’ve known for even half that amount of time who haven’t betrayed my trust, one way or another. Even you have, Steve. If I stopped speaking to everyone who has ever hurt me, I would be completely without friends.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, pinned Steve with that look again. “Have you even talked to him about it?”

The last time Steve saw Tony in person was when they had locked him up. The last time they had spoken, Steve had been shouting and Tony had been subdued. Tony had been still-bloodied from Steve’s fists.

“No,” Steve said.

Jan’s smile was soft. Knowing. “Maybe you should. It’s difficult to forgive someone without even seeing to them.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want to forgive him.”

“Yes, you do,” Jan said. “You’ve given it enough time.”

 

—

 

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t turn up,” Tony smiled.

“Am I late?” Steve asked, stepping through the window and onto the hotel balcony. He remembered this one: Madripoor, the morning before they’d faced off Madam Masque’s goons after a long hunt for a stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. N.O.C. list. He and Tony had flown in early and, too tired to sleep, spent the last hours until daybreak sitting on this balcony, waiting for the dark clouds overhead to finally let loose their burden. The air was muggy, and unclean, and this, this dream, was just like the true Madripoor.

“Well,” Tony said, with a playful shrug, “You’re not early.”

Steve settled down onto the wicker chair beside him. The pillow on it was just the right shade of faded red. Out in front of them, the island slumbered.

“In a few hours, we’re going to go out there, and you’re going to get the worst black eye I’ve ever seen on you,” Tony says, his voice light.

“Maybe we should have taken the storm clouds as an omen,” Steve said.

Tony scoffed. “Why is it always the people with healing factors that make the most of their injuries?”

“If bruises were a novelty to you, you’d be making much of them too,” Steve said with a smile, and instantly wished he hadn’t. The memory of his marks on Tony’s skin was months old, but still new, still painful, even to him.

So painful that even dream Tony was quietened by the thought.

They sat there, in silence, for what felt like forever. Above them, the clouds rumbled with unreleased thunder, roiled with rain that the dream won’t allow to fall. Steve willed it to anyway. The humidity was stifling. He wasn’t oblivious to the metaphor; they needed to clear the air.

“Do you think I should forgive you?” he said, eventually. He threw his gaze over to Tony, only to find the man already looking back at him.

“I don’t know,” Tony said, plainly, openly. Steve wished the real him would be so honest. “I want you to. But want is different than should. And even then, I’m not sure you could.”

_Maybe_ , Steve thought. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe I couldn’t. But I should. I think I should.”

Tony was quiet. He looked back to the view, to the city before them. His eyes shifted, flickered, the way they always had when he was thinking. How had it happened that Steve knew him so well, even in sleep?

“Have I left it too long?” he asked.

Tony glanced back at him, his head slightly tilted. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Steve said, “Have I left it too long? Am I holding this grudge for the sake of itself? What help is it doing to lock you up? What good it it doing either of us, keeping you in that cell? Should I be the one asking forgiveness?”

Tony laughed. A bitter laugh. A mean one. “Wishful thinking,” he said, muttered, as if to himself.

“What?”

“You’re never going to let me out of that cell, Steve. And why would you be the one asking my forgiveness?” Tony, all of a sudden, was standing, spitting with anger. “I hurt you, Steve. I betrayed you. All the love and faith and trust you poured into me over the last decade, I took and I broke because I was feeling righteous. Even if it was for the right reasons, I still broke your trust, used you. If anyone is going to be begging for forgiveness, it’s going to be me.” He was gripping the balcony railing tight, knuckles white. “And that’s not going to happen if you never fucking come and see me.”

Tony slumped down in his chair, head in his hands.

In despair. Steve wanted to wipe away all that grief. “I’m trying,” Steve said, for his sins. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Tony replied, not looking up.

“No,“ Steve agreed, admitted. “I don’t know if I am, in the real world.” He found himself wanting to smile as he echoed Tony’s words back at him. “But I am sorry. Here, now, to you. In a dream, for what that’s worth.”

Tony’s head snapped up, and he looked at Steve with wide eyes.

Steve felt a drop of water on his nose. He turned his head up, just as the heavens opened and rain began to lash down. He sprung up, jammed open the window, and followed Tony as he clambered inside. Rain; change. Change meant the movement of time, and these dreams had always been frozen photograph moments that he could walk around inside. Change meant that it was coming to an end. He’d soon wake.

He really didn’t want to.

Inside, the room was dark. The scent of the falling rain began to permeate. Steve cupped Tony’s cheek with his hand, stepped closer.

The dream dissolved.

 

—

 

It wasn’t just the dreams; everything always came back to Tony, like Steve’s life was anchored by him in everything he did. Every challenge, every trauma, every good day, every bad one – Tony had had a part in them all.

“He’s,” he said to Sam, trying to express this even when words were failing him, “He’s this spell I’m under.”

“Tony put a spell on you?” Sam said, looking pretty incredulous from the other side of the table, where he was fiddling with his feathers. “You know as well as I do he hates magic.”

“Not like that,” Steve said. It was… complicated. It was always complicated. Too complicated to explain. He thought the only other person who might understand was Tony himself. “He’s, he’s overwhelming. All-consuming. Like a thought in my head that I can’t shake off.” God, even his words folded back in on themselves.

“Jesus, Steve. Have you thought about talking to him?” Sam asked.

“Only in as much as people keep telling me to,” Steve replied.

Sam scratched his nose, looked at Steve over his fingers. “None of your friends are stupid people, Steve,” he said. “If you keep hearing the same thing from every angle, it’s possible there might be some sense in it.”

Steve slumped over the table. “I know,” he said. “I want to see him. I do want to be friends with him again. But, I’m worried that I’ll say the wrong thing, and that’ll make him say the wrong thing, and I’ll started hating him all over again.”

“You don’t hate him any more?” Sam asked. When Steve met his eyes, he looked genuinely surprised.

“No,” Steve said. Even if none of it was real, the dreams had reminded him of one thing: he could never hate Tony, not really, not forever. Against all odds, Steve cared about him, even if he didn’t always _like_ him. “Not for a while.”

“That’s a good start, at least,” Sam said, “But you realise that at some point you’re just going to have to bite the bullet, right?”

_Tony has everything to do with everything_ , Carol had said.

_You’ve given it enough time_ , Jan had said.

_Bite the bullet_ , Sam was saying.

Should he love or hate that his friends knew him better than he did?

Sam departed shortly after, leaving Steve alone at the kitchen table. He was well aware of how forlorn he must have looked. It was pathetic, he realised, that Captain America couldn’t work up the courage to even see he best friend, let alone talk to him. 

And yet. And yet. And yet.

 

—

 

“Where are we?” Steve asked. When he’d come to, they were lying side by side on a picnic blanket gazing out over a river. It was sunset, and autumn, and the landscape was ablaze in reds and golds, with long grass that was greener than green.

“Kew Gardens. London,” Tony said. He stole a glance at Steve, maybe thinking that Steve wouldn’t see despite him looking straight at Tony. “I took Ru on a date here, once.” Did he look, what, embarrassed?

Steve, vaguely, remembered Tony telling him about that date. He didn’t know why his memory had conjured up his own imagined version of what it must have been like. Probably not at all like this, in reality. There was a pagoda in the distance, for one thing – that couldn’t be right.

“It’s nice,” Steve said, propping himself up on his elbows. A warm breeze played with his hair, and he closed his eyes against it, just letting himself feel the sunshine on his skin. Real life didn’t give him many of these kinds of moments, these days.

“Ru,” Tony started, and stopped. Steve knew without seeing that Tony’s eyes were on him. He was like to sun, Steve had found – you could tell he was there even when looking away, even with eyes closed. “Ru thought so too.”

They sat there for hours, in the last light of a day that never seemed to end, like a perfect moment captured in a photograph. Tony had pulled out a magazine from somewhere for them to laugh over – a trashy British gossip rag, filled with celebrities with names that neither of them knew, that kept changing whenever they looked away from the page. Dream words, dream logic, this dream of… something. Steve’s heart ached for it, horribly, desperately, yearning for this thing that they’d never have again. Sometimes, in his mind, he called it friendship, but it wasn’t, not really. It was something else, something more, or maybe Steve just wanted for it to be.

There was a reason, he was beginning to realise, that making sure the next time he saw Tony in the flesh went right. It wouldn’t take him this long to go and see Sam, were it him who had wiped Steve’s mind, nor if it were Carol. God, he’d even talked to T’Challa and Stephen Strange since the incursions, however frostily, he’d _worked_ with Reed, and they’d all had just as much of a part in the act, and the lies that followed, as Tony had. More.

Tony was different. The ‘why’ of it was becoming increasingly obvious.

Steve loved him. Irrationally, illogically, irrepressibly, irrevocably, Steve loved him. He didn’t want to fuck it up any more than he already had.

Here and now, though, there was no fucking it up. This version of Tony, all bright and wonderful in the dying light, this version of him was still his best friend, still made him laugh like he used to. Even with all the trouble the Avengers faced, the villains, the end of the world every other weekend, being with Tony, here and now, made him feel like everything was going to be okay.

That was why, even after everything, he shifted over on the picnic blanket, took Tony’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Tony, after a moment of surprise, kissed back. The light dimmed, the sun set, and Steve finally, _finally_ held Tony close to him.

When he woke, in the real world, he felt the ghost of that evening sun on his skin, and not for the first time cursed reality for its harshness.

 

—

 

When the anniversary of the Avengers’ founding came around, Jan insisted on throwing a party in the tower, citing everyone’s desperate need for something fun after the year they’d had as reasoning. He didn’t feel particularly interested in a party, but Steve agreed to it for everyone else’s sake. They really did need the opportunity to de-stress for a while. Maybe it would end up taking his mind off things too.

Every existing and ex-Avenger was invited, with a few notable exceptions, which was a pleasant surprise. It grew dark outside as the evening wore on, but the atmosphere was bright. Jan had been right - everyone was clearly thankful of the chance to take a break.

Halfway through a conversation with Clint, Thor – the Odinson one, not the new one — came over to them. Steve perked up a little, wondering if he had any of that Asgardian brew, but his face was far too grave for there to be any chance of sharing a drink.

“Captain,” Thor said, gravely, “I must speak with you, urgently.”

Over the next five minutes, Thor wove a tale for him. Enchantress’ plan to tear apart the Avengers. A mind-meld spell gone slightly wrong. Steve and Tony, and a mental link.

“Mental link?” Steve said.

“Aye, a bond between Stark’s mind and your own. I cannot say how it might have manifested. Synchronised emotions, perhaps. Feeling each other’s ailments. Dream sharing.”

Steve paled. “Dream sharing?”

“A possibility, merely,” Thor says. “It makes no matter, either way. I have, in my absence, tracked Amora and foiled her plan, forced her to un-speak her spell. The bond between your mind and Stark’s is gone, Captain. May you now rest easy, knowing there is no foul interference in your thoughts.”

Steve had stopped hearing Thor a while ago. A beer was handed to him by someone, someone else tried to talk to him, but he was lost.

Vivid dreams, and Tony in every single one. He should have suspected.

_I’m sorry. Here, now, to you. Even in a dream._

Tony’s smile, and his laugh, and his kiss.

Steve put down his drink, went to the elevator, and descended to the cell floor.

 

—

 

It wasn’t cold, down there. Steve didn’t know why he’d expected it to be cold. It always was, in his imagination.

“Tony,” he said.

The cell was small, simple. A metal bunk with a thin mattress jutted out from the wall - aside from that, the only other furniture was a small table stacked high with books, and a metal toilet. The only thing that separated Steve from the cell’s inhabitant was a wall of bars, and a holo-locked door.

Tony’s eyes were wide. “Steve.” His voice, in the real world, was rough with disuse.

“It’s,” Steve started, and stopped. Was there anything he could even say to Tony? It didn’t feel like he still had the right to. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

A long moment passed, before Tony replied, “I didn’t think you would ever come.”

“Nor did I,” Steve said. He could hear how open and helpless his own voice sounded. “I need to tell you something.”

Then, then, he relayed what Thor had told him upstairs. Amora. The mental link. The dreams. Even still, the chaos of it swirled around Steve’s mind; all those things he had said to Tony, the _dream_ version of Tony, who hadn’t been a dream at all, and who had said all those things back to him. Who he was standing in front of right now, wishing he was closer.

“In those dreams,” Tony said, “That was you?”

“Yes."

“How long have you known?”

“Minutes. Thor only just told me.”

Tony’s head sank to his hands. “God,” he breathed, almost too quiet for Steve to hear, “Why does it always come back to you?”

There was nothing Steve could say to that. After all, he’d been asking himself the same thing about Tony. For lack of an answer, he said, “Well, at least it’s over.”

Tony’s head shot up, and he fixed Steve with this wild look that Steve couldn’t meet. He stared at the wall instead, and tried not to feel the heavy weight of Tony’s gaze upon him.

“At least?” Tony said.

“I never meant to intrude in your mind. It’s not right.”

Steve could tell, without looking, that Tony was rolling his eyes. “Oh, like how I intruded yours, Steve?” he bit out.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve replied. They were spiralling back into venom and he desperately wanted to backtrack.

“No?”

“No. No, I…” he started, but trailed off. “No.” There was a long moment where they were both quiet. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds but it dragged on for an eternity before Steve said, “You said you were sorry. In one of the dreams.” He was still staring at the wall. He couldn’t bear to look away; he didn’t trust what he might do. “Was that true?”

“There is a very long list of all the things that I’m sorry for, Cap. You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Tony spat, and Steve knew that tone. It only ever came out when Tony was trying to hide something behind his venom.

“I won’t play games with you, Tony,” Steve shot back, finally tearing his gaze away from the wall and latching onto Tony. “You know what I mean.”

“Is this what you really came down here for? To ask for my apologies? Why does it matter?” Tony seethed. “I thought you were done with me. You beat me. You sought me out to kill me at the end of everything. Why, now, do you care what I think? What do apologies mean to you?” 

“Everything,” Steve said.

Tony stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, but he must have seen that Steve was serious, because he shook his head and sat down on the bunk.

They were quiet for a long time. He couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t said the right thing. It had been so long, so long since he’dtalked to Tony in person, maybe all this mess was beyond fixing.

Finally, finally, Tony broke the silence, bursting all Steve’s spun-glass thoughts. “I could, if you wanted me to. Give you a list, of all the things I’m sorry for,” he said. He was staring at Steve, straight in the eyes, with, what? Defiance? “But I don’t think you’d appreciate that. So, just, let me say this: I’m sorry for the messes I dragged us all through. I’m sorry I wasn’t the person you thought I was. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to all the hope you put in me, Steve. I’m sorry I lied.” 

“Forgive me if I’m expecting to hear a ‘but’ after all that,” Steve said, and felt the cracks it made in his heart, because he hated being the cynic when it came to Tony Stark, but how, now, could he be anything else?

Tony smiled, small, sad. “Not this time,” he said. “I’m sorry. That’s all.”

“You still think your methods were right,” Steve said. It wasn’t a question.

“I know they were,” Tony replied. “That doesn’t make it any righter, what I did to you.”

It was all unravelled. The ideal and the methodology. Steve wanted to grasp for more tangles in the Gordian knot that they’d created around themselves, but they were coming loose in his fingers. Tony was sorry. He was right, and he was wrong, and he was sorry. Wasn’t this what Steve had been so desperate for?

“You don’t need to suddenly trust me, now,” Tony said, slicing through the thoughts in Steve’s brain. “I, of all people, should know when something can’t be fixed. But I still wanted to say it: I’m sorry.”

Steve wanted to say something, something like _thank you_ , but the words died on his lips. He wasn’t grateful, he was, he was relieved, in every sense of the word. Relieved, now, of this weight he’d been carrying, the weight of all the mistrust he’d been holding against Tony. Relieved of the vigilance, the hyper-vigilance, waiting for Tony to betray him again. Relieved of the fears that maybe, probably, things could never be the same again. They never could, of course, but they could come close.

Everything had changed forever all over again. Funny, the frequency with which that was happening.

Wordlessly, mindlessly, Steve pulled out his identicard and unlocked the cell door.

“Steve?” Tony said. Cautious. He was being cautious. Made sense.

“I want you with me,” Steve said. “Up there. Out there. I want you with me, not down here.” _It doesn’t suit you_ , he wanted to say, like that meant anything at all. _It doesn’t suit me._

“What, on probation?” Tony asked.

Steve shook he head. “No,” he said. “I just, want you. With me.” Words, as they so often did, were failing him. He sighed. “You said, once, that you’re not half as good at anything as when you’re doing it next to me. Did it occur to you that I might be in the same boat?”

“You’re Captain America,” Tony pointed out, with a little smile. “Why would that ever occur to me?”

Steve laughed. It was, he realised faintly, the first time he’d laughed with Tony in real life in months.

“You know, I’ve missed you,” Tony said. “Or, maybe I haven’t. I’ve been seeing you every night.” He shook his head, that smile staying on his lips. “It’s strange. Down here, I got so used to the thought of never seeing you again. Things never feeling right with you again, not like they were in the dreams. But they’re one and the same — dream you and you, you and him.”

“Me and him,” Steve said. Things had never been simple between the two of them. This maze of confusion and intention was as simple as they got. “I meant it. Every word I said to you. Even if it was a dream.”

“All of it?” Tony replied. 

Steve thought of Tony in the rain, in candlelight, in the setting sun, warm in his arms.

“All of it,” he said. “Come upstairs with me?” 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! It took me 8 months to finish this, meaning I wrote an average of 24.5 words a day!


End file.
